


one thing to another (a series of perversions)

by Randomfandoms389



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blackmail, Drunkenness, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Crossdressing, Light Bondage, M/M, Non-Consensual Photography, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24700978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomfandoms389/pseuds/Randomfandoms389
Summary: “God, I should have gotten you this drunk ages ago. Is this why France likes to take you bar-hopping, sweetheart?”England doesn't even react to the nickname. America smiles, moves the fingers still splayed over England’s ass in slow purposeful circles, letting them drift towards his cleft. England doesn't react to that either. He probably won't even be standing without America’s help.(America takes advantage of a drunken England. Things escalate from there.)
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 135





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING y’all this is some fucked up shit, please read the tags

America really doesn't know what’s going on between him and England nowadays. 

They fight and they fuck and then they fight some more and sometimes they do both at the same time just for kicks and it’s all quite a bit of a mess. England doesn't really seem to know what to make of it either, and the others are all useless because they all think that it’s _love_ or some shit, won't stop mooning on and on about rose petals and candlelit dinners and they keep doing the old wink-wink-nudge routine every time he and England start sniping at each other in public. It’s fucking annoying because America might not know what it _is_ , exactly, but he does know what it _isn't_ and whatever they've got isn't like that at all. 

There's the physical part, of course.

He can admit that England can be… attractive when he isn't acting like he's got a stick up his ass and they've got _some_ kind of chemistry, at least, judging from the way they go at each other in arguments and then in bed (or over a desk or against a wall) once America peels off those stuffy suits of England’s and gets his hands on pale, pale skin and his fingers tangled in blond hair.

England did have a bit of a mouth on him ( _pink lips and poisoned words, deadly as any knife sliding between your ribs_ ) but for a while, America had quite liked England’s mouth, liked sharp teeth and snarling lips, the spitfire fury that made him so fun to kiss. He usually loses, of course, but he likes to fight anyway, bites and claws and leaves America’s back raw and bloody from his nails. He's even more beautiful when he comes, those venomous green eyes sliding closed and that obstinate mouth falling open as the moans he can't fight back anymore come pouring out. 

It’s always a fight with them, one way or another. But it’s getting old now, the constant hostility. America’s getting sick of it but England doesn't seem like he’ll be letting go of it anytime soon. He still keeps himself cold and closed off up until America’s buried in the heat of him and he can't keep up the facade anymore. (Wearing him down was part of the fun though. Had been part of the fun, at least.)

That’s not the point though. 

The point was this: America had what he wanted and it wasn't enough. 

He had wanted England so much; as a child, a colony, trailing behind his empire and begging for the barest scraps of his attention. Then he had wanted the exact opposite; distance and deliverance, freedom from the oppressor. And then, as the years passed and their standoff eased into something almost like camaraderie, (although America doubts anyone else would call it that,) a mutual understanding enforced with barbed words and frosty indifference across meeting rooms that broke down more often than not into screaming matches and hands fisted in collars and angry bruises. The sex was new, though, and not an entirely surprising development. Not to America at least, but he doubts that any of the others realise that since half of them seem to think he’s some sort of oblivious idiot. England’s certainly called him that before, and worse. Nowadays, America likes to smile back, all teeth, as he sunnily reminds England of _which idiot managed to make you scream last night again?_ It has mixed results; the first time he’d tried it, France (and Hungary) had lit up with unholy delight, Canada had snorted coffee out his nose (which had looked painful) and Germany had looked about ready to murder them on the spot. Or have an aneurysm. Or both. It had all been pretty entertaining. England had actually been shocked into silence for a good few seconds, flushing red in mingled fury and embarrassment. 

England, England, England. 

It all circled back to him some way or another. Their histories were far too entwined for anything else and America wouldn't have it any other way, really. But sometimes he just wants what neither of them can give and it’s _infuriating_ because it’s been years of this and America still catches himself daydreaming of waking up to soft kisses and long-fingered hands in his, boxes of tea in his cupboards and old books on his shelves next to video games and comics. It’s ridiculous because, for goodness’ sake, they can't even tolerate each other most of the time. Conversations turn into arguments, turn into shouting, turn into fistfights and someone walking away with a broken nose or black eye. 

They couldn't even have sex that wasn't fast-paced and frenzied, with taunts and jabs filling the air as often as gasps and moans. America had tried to be gentle that first time, but England had made it clear he didn't want gentle from America, had hissed and spat and swore until America forced him onto his hands and knees and then fucked him quiet. God, they were a mess. Some of the gossip he catches during world meetings make him want to laugh because a relationship? _Them?_ Ridiculous, all of it. America isn't even sure which of them he hates more now; England for, well, _everything_ or himself for wanting something more anyway. (Stupid England, with his pretty eyes and pretty face that America usually only got to see caught in frigid disapproval or twisted in a snarl -)

All right, to be fair, there _is_ one time outside of sex where they manage to get along with minimal bloodshed. 

Namely, when they’re both drunk as fuck. 

America really shouldn't have invited England back to his place for even more alcohol after the bar they'd gone to had kicked them out (Prussia’s fault, mostly, but since no one had stopped him from building the failed Molotov cocktail - for _what_ , America didn't even know - he supposes that the rest of them weren't exactly innocent.) Then again, England shouldn't have accepted either, so this one was probably on both of them. 

But it was America’s kitchen counter suffering right now though, so maybe England could get more of the blame this time. America eyes the beer stains and rings of condensation smeared over his (formerly) nice clean counter and sighs. He isn't surprised though. England tends to be a belligerent drunk, all wild gestures and loud noises. He's in the middle of another tirade (about what, America doesn't know but since it was miraculously not directed at him this time, he doesn't really care), waving his glass around with more force than necessary and almost toppling off his stool in the process. America catches him even though he’s had just as much as England because 1) his tolerance is way higher and 2) he doesn't actually want England to crack his head open even if it’s for no reason other than saving his (still) nice clean - and most importantly, _white_ \- floors. And maybe even 3) because he’s been England’s designated babysitter after drinking sprees for decades and some habits are just too ingrained to shake. 

It doesn't stop England from hissing and taking a swipe at America’s hand (once he actually notices it wrapped around his elbow.) He misses, almost falling for real this time, and America rolls his eyes and almosts lets him. Stubborn old bastard. He wrinkles his nose as England flails some more and ends up spilling half his drink on the floor.

“You're cleaning that up,” America tells him and England scoffs before downing what’s left in his glass and then taking a swig directly from the bottle. He slams it back on the counter when he'd done. Rude. He was a terrible houseguest. Why had America invited him again? 

Oh yeah, because it had been a while and he had wanted sex. 

England yells - slurs, really - something that might have been Old English or Welsh or whichever of his stupid languages at one of America’s innocent cabinet doors and then tries to hurl himself to his feet, which was clearly a disastrous idea because his legs buckle immediately and he would have gotten intimately acquaintanced with the unforgiving corner of the kitchen counter if America hadn't caught him. Again. This time, he doesn't even bother trying to return England to his own stool, just drags the man forward so he’s settled between America’s legs and propped up on America’s chest. Really, the things he did for the old man. England’s warm at least, even though he’s all elbows and pointy edges, slurring clumsy protests at their new position because the man could - and would - complain about literally anything. 

“God, shut up,” America says over him, feeling inexplicably tired. “I should have just fucking let you fall.” 

“Y’shut up,” England returns childishly, struggling half-heartedly against the arm that America has wrapped around his waist. He gives up after a minute and slumps, his pointy chin digging into America’s shoulder. “And give me that bottle, damnit.”

America hands it over without protest; he doesn't much like… what was this again? Definitely ain’t beer, but he thinks that they polished off all the six-packs he has in his fridge a while ago. He squints at it. Green bottle, fancy-ish red stopper. _Buchanan’s_ something. Oh. Whiskey. He's not sure how it ended up in his kitchen, sure didn't remember getting it, but England’s draining what’s left of it at a rate that’s honestly pretty impressive. He lolls forward again once he's done and America carefully extracts the bottle from his fingers before they ended up with broken glass all over the floor. “Happy now?” It’s muffled into England’s hair. America can't remember the last time they were so close when they weren't fucking. 

Fortunately, that was a problem that seemed like it’d soon be remedied, judging by the way England’s looking at his mouth. 

America puts the bottle safely away, anticipation settling in his gut. That’d be good. England’s a good kisser even if he bites too hard and too much. America always bites back anyway, so it’s fair; they both walk away with stinging lips and the taste of copper in their mouths. 

America banishes the fleeting desire for anything softer and sweeter (he's _drunk,_ okay?) and leans in first, slides a hand up to tangle in fluffy hair and drags England in for a kiss that’s milder than usual, for some reason. Almost lazy, even; England parts his lips readily when America licks at the seam, lets America push his tongue into his mouth without fuss. It’s weird. He pushes a little more, half-expecting sharp teeth to come down and almost bite off his tongue, but England just tips his head back, almost _sighing_ when America runs a hand down his back through his dress shirt. His hands come up, curling into America’s hair with uncharacteristic gentleness and America doesn't really know what to make of it. He pulls away after a minute of this, studies England’s face with more than passing interest for the first time tonight. 

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

England _looked_ fine, at least, if rather heavily flushed. His eyes are heavy-lidded and he blinks slowly a few times before giving a questioning hum. He doesn't even try to hit America for the question. It’s practically _calm_ for him. America can't even decide if he likes it or is just rightfully creeped out. England does not do _calm_ around him; his only two modes in America’s presence are _mad_ and _madder_. (It said a lot about their relationship actually.)

And here he is practically melting in America’s arms, peering up hazily at him with pinpoint pupils drowned in a sea of green, lips parted and his face so _very_ red. It’s a good look on him actually. America’s starting to lean towards liking the change. It was just… oddly satisfying? America can definitely appreciate not getting half-mauled. Deciding not to ask, he dips his head to drag his tongue over England’s throat, nosing his way down to bite lightly at his collarbone. England actually _moans_. Christ. 

America sits back to stare at him, slightly incredulous. (And turned on. Ridiculously turned on.) “What the - Are you _that_ drunk?” 

Another low moan is his only answer as England presses closer, soft lips latching on the hinge of America’s jaw and well, if _that_ was how he wanted to play it - America lets his hands wander lower, cups and kneads at the frankly amazing ass hiding under loose slacks and England actually jerks a little, almost _purring_ , and god, this was so _weird_. England never liked acknowledging when America did something to him that felt good, would probably bite his own lip bloody if he thought it would help hide his reactions. It was… really hot, actually. Definitely nice to be appreciated for once. America pulls him in a whole lot closer, scooting forward on his stool so he can hook a leg in England’s, grinding their lower bodies together and feeling the telltale bulge against his thigh. Hmm. Half-hard, which isn't bad considering how much alcohol England had slugged back. America had been almost expecting him to not even be able to get it up. 

He tugs lightly at England’s hair to coax him back, exposing that pale, pretty neck that America plans to cover with bruises and lovebites. He nuzzles into it, lips curling at the sheer _novelty_ that was a docile England, who hadn't resisted beyond a single whine when America moved him. That had been hot too. He definitely likes having England so vocal. America scrapes his teeth over that pale throat and England moans again, hips rocking.

“God, I should have gotten you this drunk ages ago. Is this why France likes to take you bar-hopping, sweetheart?”

England doesn't even react to the nickname. America smiles faintly, moves the fingers still splayed over England’s ass in slow purposeful circles, letting them drift towards his cleft. England doesn't react to that either. He probably won't even be standing without America’s help. The thought is inexplicably arousing. Somehow. America doesn't think too much about it, just presses his lips to England’s ear, nipping at the soft cartilage even as the stray thought of just _how much he could get away with, with England like this_ surfaces. There's a faint whisper of _wrongness_ and _don't_ but it’s all too easy to let the heat of England’s skin distract him. America goes on kissing England's neck. “Sweetheart,” he says into it, almost sing-song. “Can I take your belt off? I just wanna tie you up a little bit. Moan for me if it’s okay?” 

(See? He _asked_. That made it okay.)

He digs his fingers a bit more firmly into England’s ass and oh _yes_ , England moans so prettily, head falling back. That was permission if he’d ever heard it. America has to prop England up between his legs and the kitchen island so he can unbuckle his belt, then draws England close again so he can tuck England’s arms behind his back and wrap the belt securely around his wrists. 

England would have killed him if he even suggested this sober. Drunk England just whines in mild confusion when he tries to move and finds himself unexpectedly restrained, but America soothes him with a kiss, sucking playfully at his lower lip. God, if only it was this easy to placate him normally. He lets England continue leaning against the kitchen island for support, starts fingering the buttons of his shirt next. “Can I take your shirt off too?” He doesn't really know why he keeps asking; it’s just that every simple question - and England’s nonsensical answers - make his cock twitch in his pants. “Baby? Is that okay?”

England’s nipples are visible through the thin fabric. America brushes the pad of a finger over one of them and England shifts restlessly, letting out a tiny sound as his head lolls back on his shoulder. America has to suppress a shiver. “Taking that as a yes,” he tells the insensate man with a bright smile and starts unbuttoning. He slips England’s tie off easily; it had been draped loosely around his neck, the knot long since undone. The red had looked nice against all that pale skin and white fabric but it would just get in the way. He can't exactly take England’s shirt off entirely with the man’s hands tied, so he just untucks it carelessly and pushes the sides behind England’s back to bare even more skin. 

And because America’s never really gotten to just _look_ at England before, (they'd always been in too much of a hurry for that,) that’s what he does now, admires the creamy skin and traces the faded scars as England stares sightlessly up at the ceiling, clearly struggling just to keep his eyes open. His flush has spread to his chest, America is delighted to note.

“Pretty,” he says absently, eyes dipping, drawn to the dusky pink nipples framed by white cotton and silver scars. God, even blackout drunk in his kitchen and slumped against the side of the counter, England’s beautiful in a way that had taken America years to accept, all pale skin and fine features. Like a painting brought to life. Or an angel brought down to walk the earth. He pauses when England squirms again, hips shifting just enough to draw America’s eyes to the bulge in his pants.

The corner of America’s mouth tips up.

“You're no angel though,” he murmurs and lets his finger circle one little nub. 

This - this was all _wrong,_ he knows. Forget all the bullshit about heroism that he likes to sprout in public, it wasn't even something that anyone with any modicum of decency would do. That was all right though. America doesn't think he's been a decent person for a while, let alone a hero, and there seem to be no lows that he won't sink to when it comes to England. Arthur. America rolls the name on his tongue for a moment, considering even as he teases that nipple with the faintest of touches. England’s started to pant; soft, gasping breaths through his open mouth as his hips lift, searching for pressure, friction, anything that America might deign to give him.

 _Not Arthur_ , he decides after a minute or so. Arthur had been a mentor, a caretaker and friend. His eyes had been warm and he had loved Alfred and Alfred had loved him right back, but America isn't Alfred anymore, just like how England isn't Arthur. 

He catches that nipple between his thumb and forefinger, still gentle as he plucks and plays with it, coaxes out a few trembling moans from England before he finally pinches and _twists_ forcefully enough that England arches, crying out as he struggles weakly against his restraints. _God, he’s so pretty._ America watches, sinking his teeth into his own bottom lip until he can't take it any longer and bends forward to put his mouth to England’s bared chest, kissing along his clavicle, then down his sternum. He keeps it achingly slow, pinching and pulling all the while, until England’s soft cries have turned into loud moans. _Beautiful_. America almost wants to take his time, explore all the skin on display but he takes that little nub into his mouth just to hear England’s slurred moan. He sucks at it, even scores his teeth over the sensitive flesh, and England _writhes_ in his grasp, momentarily slipping lower with a strangled cry as his legs give out before America catches him again. “So responsive,” America says, flicking his tongue out lazily. “It’s a damned shame you aren't like this all the time, sweetheart. We’d probably get along _so_ much better, don't ya think?”

He tugs England into his lap when the man doesn't seem able to stand anymore, spreads those long, long legs and caresses the firm thighs cradling his hips. It makes England shudder slightly, tipping back until he's half lying on the counter. “Gorgeous,” America tells him, both pet name and a compliment as he strokes his thumbs over England’s hipbones, presses forward to kiss at England’s throat again. “I’m gonna unzip your pants, yeah? Gonna touch you - wrap my hand ‘round your cock, _really_ make you moan for me.” 

He rubs a hand over straining fabric as he talks, presses down gently just to make England gasp and whine. His eyes are fully shut now, sweat shining on his brow and America watches his face, transfixed by the clear _pleasure_ on those normally stern features. The zipper is loud in the stillness of his kitchen. So is England’s moan when America gets his cock out, not even bothering to push his trousers or boxers down properly. He's not quite fully hard yet. Getting there though, so America helps him out a little; squeezes and strokes, brushing his thumb over the sensitive slit to catch a bit of precome as England squirms in his lap, moaning deliriously as America touches him. He's practically draped over the counter by this point, gone boneless and pliant and it’s gotten so fucking _hot_ in here America can barely breathe. He angles his hand, pumps England’s cock a bit too quickly, his nails scraping over tender skin but all it does is make England jolt and then he _moans_ and America pauses. Blinks. Then smiles, slow and sharp. 

“Oh? You like that, beautiful?” 

He does it again, scrapes his nails over that cock and England _does_ , makes even more of those pretty _sounds_ ; god, America should’ve known he’d like a little pain. The way he always ordered America to fuck him a bit too hard, the way he bit at America’s mouth just to invite retaliation… Little things, really, but god. He plays with England’s balls with his free hand; gently at first, but more and more roughly when it seems that he likes that too. “Bit of a pain slut, aren't you?” England moans some more and America shivers. Was all of Europe like this? With their sadistic little games, all those fucking innuendoes, _invading this_ and _invading that_. It’s a thought, but America’s never really been interested in anyone other than England and he's got the man writhing in his lap right now, gasping and god help him, _mewling_ , even, as America torments him. 

He pinches gently at a spot just under the swollen head and England’s whole body spasms, his back arching, head falling back to give America a nice view of his throat where the pale skin is already darkening with faint bruises and bite marks. It’s tempting enough that America cranes forward to add to his handiwork; presses their chests flush and sinks his teeth into the crook of England’s neck, being less careful now that he _knows_ England likes it. 

England doesn't disappoint; his throat works under America’s lips, thrumming with a low moan. It makes America smile, fingers sliding over England’s dripping cock, smearing pre-come over his skin. “Will you even remember this tomorrow?” He digs a nail into England’s slit and the sound he gets is _obscene_. “The way I made you moan for me - god, I bet you'd be _begging_ by now if you could talk -” America teases a little more, gives him a few more minutes of this before letting go of his cock, earning a discontented whine that cuts off when America grabs his ass none-too-gently, giving it a good squeeze as he lifts England up onto the counter. “Relax, baby,” he says, “just making us comfier. See, it’s easier like this, yeah?”

He stands but goes on stroking England’s cock, keeping him distracted as America drags his trousers and underwear off, leaving him naked save for his unbuttoned shirt and socks. He probably needn't have bothered though; sprawled over the countertop with his back arched awkwardly because of his bound arms, England barely seems to notice. He doesn't seem to care that his legs are dangling off the counter either, is too busy squirming restlessly, lifting his hips into the contact, already so needy that America can only imagine how he’d react when he’s being fingered. 

He hums a little, pressing himself between England’s spread thighs to grind his own clothed erection against England’s. “You’re so _pretty_ like this, sweetheart. Give me a minute and then I'll do something that’ll make you feel _really_ good, okay?” 

England just whines, eyes fluttering and America rubs a hand against his hip even as he leans across the counter to grab his own wallet from where he’d tossed it when they’d first stumbled into the kitchen. He digs through it distractedly, flicking through various cards and old receipts before he finds the packet of lube he always stashes in there. Two of them, in fact, and America grins triumphantly as he drops one of them by England’s elbow and rips open the other. “There we go. Now, I’m gonna need you to relax, okay?”

He even warms the lube between his hands before reaching between England’s legs, cooing soothingly when the man twitches, making a soft, almost questioning sound at the sensation of slick fingers circling his entrance. “Relax, sweetheart. Promise I’ll be gentle.” _For now._ He’s patient, touching and pushing and petting teasingly until England goes obligingly lax enough for America to slip a single finger in. God, his cock’s throbbing, trapped in his jeans, and all he wants to bury himself inside that tight heat, but he plans to _enjoy_ this, to spin it out for as long as he can. And that meant getting England good and ready for his cock, getting him hot and needy and fucking begging for it. 

He adds another finger when that tight hole loosens up a little and has to bite his own lip when England makes this tiny sound in the back of his throat, not quite a moan. He tries to be patient, working his fingers in and out, stroking England from the inside in slow, gentle motions, but it’s agonising in the best possible way. England doesn't seem too sure about the fingers in his ass at first; keeps furrowing his brows and tossing his head, eyes fluttering like he’s fighting to open them. America watches for every flash of dazed green with an odd, excited pulse in his belly, in his cock. He isn't even sure _why_ the possibility of - of what? Lucidity? A flash of awareness? England catching him doing this? (Asking him to stop? _Begging_ him to stop?) turns him on so goddamned much. The obvious conclusion is that he’s as much of a pervert as France. America supposes he doesn't really care as long as England kept moving like that and making those sounds - _Christ, just like that, yeah_ as America curls his fingers and almost makes England fall off the counter, his whole body locking up as he moans. 

Prostate thus located, America proceeds to abuse his knowledge shamelessly; prods and rubs and circles the little bundle of nerves until England’s almost screaming in pleasure, writhing as America teases him. It’s all immensely satisfying. England’s actually _crying_ now, tears leaking out his tightly closed eyes and trickling into his hair. God, this was _amazing_. America doesn't even try not to stare, dragging the fingers of his free hand over England’s taut stomach through the puddle of precome from his leaking cock. This alone makes him shudder, hips lifting in a clear plea for more that America obliges willingly. He wraps his hand around England’s cock again and England chokes out a cry, something so slurred that it’s indecipherable but the meaning is clear when his body arches in that familiar way - 

America has a split second to decide whether he wants to let England come so soon. It’s not a popular decision, judging from the immediate moan of protest when he clamps down sharply around the base of England’s cock, just barely in time to forestall the orgasm. 

America just laughs, a little strained as England goes _tight_ around his fingers, that gorgeous body shining with sweat and wracked with fine tremors. “Aww, don't be like that, baby. ‘M just looking out for you, is all.” He bends, kisses a trembling thigh in apology. “If you come so soon, you'll be too sensitive when I fuck you later and it might hurt, y’know?”

England doesn't seem to take this as an acceptable excuse. If he's even capable of coherent thought at the moment. “God, you're hot like this,” America tells him, adding another finger. The added stretch makes England whine, tensing up instinctively until America nails him in the prostate. Then he practically collapses, almost spasming in pleasure. Especially when America leans over to take a nipple into his mouth, sucking and licking at one, then the other. Then, it’s back to the first one to blow lightly on it before catching the tip between his teeth, teasing. Again and again, alternating between them until England’s nipples are swollen and red, filthy with saliva, and he's a limp, trembling mess spread out over the counter, mewling with every movement of America’s fingers inside him. 

“You wanna come, sweetheart?” No response. England looked _wrecked_. Too bad America’s not done with him yet. Not by a long shot. 

He straightens again, runs an appreciative eye over the man he's spent most of the past hour ruining. “I’m gonna _break_ you, gorgeous. Fuck you till you're screaming, god, you'll be my filthy little mess -” 

He angles his hand roughly and England makes another of those sounds, soft and trembling and sweet, almost mindless with pleasure. America swallows hard. He slips his fingers out of England, almost regretting it when it makes him whine in distress. America calms him with whispered nonsense, murmurs of _soon, baby, be a little patient for me, okay?_

He strips in record time, shucks off everything - jeans and shirt and boxers - without bothering to see where they land. That didn't matter anyway; England was waiting for him, loose and needy and _his_ , _all his_ for tonight. He snags the other packet of lube from the counter, coats his cock with it with brisk efficiency. He probably has a condom somewhere, but honestly, he’s not gonna bother when England’s too out of it to bitch at him for not using one. 

The counter was just a bit too high for him to fuck England properly on it, so America just picks him up, smothering the small sleepy murmur with a kiss as he takes the few steps necessary to press England up against the wall. It’s a little tricky because of his bound arms, but America’s strong enough to pin him there by his upper back so it’ll work. England’s lost enough coordination that he can't quite wrap his legs around America’s waist though, so America just hooks England’s right knee over his arm and lowers his other leg to the ground. This oughta be good, judging from England’s reaction to just being fingered but when America glances up, he finds the man’s face slack, his breathing a bit too regular. Oh, damnit. 

“Rude,” he chides, aligning himself and rubbing the head of his cock at that loosened rim just to see if that provoked any reaction. Nope. England barely stirs. “Really, baby? Did you go and fall asleep on me now?”

That was a little annoying. America clicks his tongue but pushes in anyway, gasping a little himself at the wet heat enveloping his cock. England twitches at the intrusion, a small strangled whimper slipping out of his throat when America simply loosens his grip and lets gravity do the rest. Too drunk to hold himself up, England just slides lower down the wall and further onto America’s cock, burying it so fucking _deep_ that America can't breathe for a moment, just presses his face into England’s shoulder with a groan. _A-all right, maybe he didn't quite think that one through._ He gives a cautious thrust, rocking his hips, and England shudders a little, his throat working. It’s not much, but a reaction had been what America had been waiting for so he grins.

“Back with us, sweetheart? Y’know, I really can't decide if I wanna take my time, fuck you nice and slow,” he presses kisses to England’s neck, lapping at a drop of sweat rolling down it. “Or… just do it hard and fast, finish myself off and leave you like _this_.” He strokes a finger down the shaft of England’s cock, teasing. It gets him a small, helpless whine, though he doubts that England’s really aware of him or what he's saying. The man was barely conscious anyway, there wasn't actually much point in putting in so much effort to pleasure him. Bit of a pity, since America liked hearing England’s little cries but ah well. Mind made up, he stops trying to be considerate, just starts up a harsh, punishing rhythm that knocks England a few inches up the wall with every thrust and makes him thrash weakly and keen. 

It doesn't take long for America to finish at this pace - one last quick jerk of his hips and he's spilling inside England with a moan. He doesn't drop England, thankfully, even as the rush of white-hot pleasure threatens to make his legs buckle; he just tips forward and props them both up against the wall to wait until his muscles stopped twitching and trembling so badly. Oh, that had been _good_. One of the best orgasms he’d had in a while really. 

England’s still hard, his leaking cock pressed to America’s stomach. _Ah good, he didn't fall back to sleep,_ says a distant part of America’s brain. He's shaking instead, letting out these soft, gasping mewls, so goddamned gorgeous like this that America can't resist kissing him, drinking in those goddamned _sounds_. He could be nice and finish England off right now, it won't even be too difficult, with his evident arousal. 

Too bad America’s not nice then. 

“You don't look like you're doing too good, sweetheart,” America coos, sated and satisfied and smiling at the desperation clear in every quiver of England’s muscles, the strain lining his features. “What’s wrong, hmm?” He doesn't expect a reply, just sets a hand on the curve of England’s ass thoughtfully, fingertips just barely brushing his rim, where he’s still stretched obscenely around America’s softening cock. _What to do with him, what to do… ah._

His cock slips out when he spins them around, but America only hums at the soft whimper from England and sets him back down on the counter. He unwinds the belt from around England’s wrists next, and takes off the sweat-soaked dress shirt, ignoring the dark pink marks left on his wrists and forearms that would probably fade by tomorrow. 

England won't quit squirming though, so America pins a hand to his belly to keep him still, lets it drift tantalisingly close to his straining cock. “Shh, sweetheart,” he says with just a hint of a laugh in his voice. “Relax, I’ll let you come soon, okay? I’m not that mean.” 

Another whine. _So needy._ That was good though, America quite liked it. He drags England’s ankles up, setting his heels on the counter, socks and all, so that England’s splayed out for him, open and vulnerable with nowhere to escape when America trails his fingers down the curve of one thigh and starts stroking his perineum. This gets a ragged moan that stutters when America rubs gently at where he's soft and wet and loose, making him pant and arch, flushed pink against the black marble of the countertop.

“You know, sweetheart, you _really_ liked me fingering you earlier,” America says conversationally over those little cries. “So… wanna see if you can come just from me playing with your ass?”

He could probably manage it, America decides, raking his eyes over England’s body appreciatively, admiring him sprawled out and so utterly debauched. _Used_ , even. America shivers slightly. “God, I’ve said this already, but you're so fucking _pretty_ , sweetheart. I almost wanna take a picture, keep it as a little souvenir -” 

He pauses, fingers stilling. Because, well… he _could._ England was scarcely conscious and so drunk America didn't doubt that his memories of the entire night would be a useless blur. He wouldn't remember and it wasn't like he could object in this state. There was nothing stopping America from doing whatever he goddamned _wanted_ to the man. _And well, he’d already come this far…_

All right then. “Change of plans, sweetheart,” America says, looking up.

Where had he left his phone again? 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI JUST A HEADS UP BUT AMERICA DRUGS ENGLAND IN THIS CHAPTER (and also in chapter 3, but that'll have its own warnings later!)

A phone would be too risky, America decides. Too easy for someone to stumble across and he didn't want _these_ particular pictures being found. It’d be a political clusterfuck for one, even if there wasn't exactly anything that could do to him with his status. And well, maybe he just didn't want anyone else getting to see England like this. Just him.

Hence the camera. 

He’d unearthed it in his study, a decent little thing that had been presented to him by his boss with the desperate plea to _pick up a decent hobby, please, stop spending all your free time playing video games and harassing my staff._ He’d probably hoped it would inspire America to take up something nice and boring like bird watching. 

America thinks this makes for a far better picture.

“Hold still, sweetheart. Just a little longer, mkay?” 

He pins England down easily when he squirms, holds his legs open when he tries weakly to close them, thighs twitching and shining with sweat. England makes this soft helpless sound in response, his head lolling, those pretty green eyes screwed shut. He trembles when America caresses him, whimpering sweetly when America brushes a thumb over his hole, so loose and wet and inviting. 

The shutter goes off, a quiet _click, click, click_ that England doesn't even seem to register and America sits back with a satisfied smile to take a look at his new pictures, heels propped up on the rungs of his stool. They came out pretty well, he decides, especially considering America’s never so much as touched the camera in the how-many years he’s had it. Although he supposes it didn't hurt that he has such a good subject to practise on. He presses a bit more firmly, lets the very tip of his thumb sink into slick warmth and repositions the camera to capture it. A quick close-up first, then he zooms out a little to get England’s torso in the frame, to catch the way his spine arches at the slight stimulation, the twitch of his swollen cock against his belly. 

“God, you're _gorgeous_ ,” America says lowly, all too pleased by the mess he’d made of the man, by the sight of his own come leaking out of that abused hole. He strokes the sensitive skin around it with a knuckle, making England shudder. Then he replaces the thumb with two of his fingers, buries them inside England’s body with a wet sound, makes him keen with teasing flashes of pressure on his prostate. 

More _clicks_ that are drowned out by England’s cries when America scissors his fingers apart and then crooks them the way he’s found England likes. He even drags them out a little, holds England’s hole nice and open for another close-up that’ll be jerk-off materiel for months.

Then it's time for a couple of videos next; one of England writhing on his fingers and crying out, a short one where America plays with his nipples and then another of his reaction as America pumps his cock and scrapes teasing nails over his balls. Maybe he’ll take one when he puts his cock in England later; that’ll be good. 

Maybe it’s cruel of him, but he doesn't let England come, keeps backing off when it seems like he might lose it. America can't help it though, England just makes the _best_ noises whenever it happens, all high and desperate, and the way he _moved_ , god. America’s gonna fucking treasure this camera. Maybe he’ll even make copies of the memory card, just in case. 

He carefully flips England onto his stomach after he's gotten enough pictures with this position, forcing those legs apart again and spreading his cheeks nice and wide. “God, it’s like you don't have a single bad angle, sweetheart,” he says easily over the _click_ of his camera. “I swear, it’s fucking unfair how good you look. Pretty _there_ ,” he palms England’s cock, hanging hard and heavy between his legs and savours his low moan. “And pretty _here_ too.” Three fingers now, sinking in deep. England flutters sporadically around him, whimpering. His head is turned, one flushed cheek pressed to the counter, but his eyes don't open, not even a little as America finger-fucks him and records all of it. He’s got a pretty back too, slim and scarred, just as freckled as his cheeks. America makes sure to get it in some of his shots. 

He’s just debating whether or not to put the poor guy out of his misery and let him come already when England lets out a slurred moan that almost sounds like - America freezes. Then England says it again, still clumsy but unmistakable this time: _America, please_. 

Well, fuck. Looked like he was sobering up. 

America puts the camera aside, considering. He could end things here, jerk England off real quick and then let him sleep it off in the spare bedroom, hoping he didn't remember anything he heard. That was one option. _Or…_ Heat pools in his gut and America barely thinks about it, just scoops England up into his arms. He might have been too drunk to even comprehend what had happened, but well, no sense in taking chances. It’s a princess-carry, but England doesn't protest, just gives a sleepy whine and leans his head against America’s chest like he can't hold it upright, leaving one arm dangling.

He doesn't know if England could hear him, but he says it anyway; an excuse, a stab at normalcy. Just words, really, he barely pays attention to what he’s saying. Stuff like: _Jeez, your tolerance sucks, old man. Way to go, passing out half-way through sex. Should I be offended?_ He keeps chattering, light-hearted and casual despite his pounding heart, all the way to the bathroom, where he sets England down on the counter by the sink. 

They're both entirely naked now and England hisses a little at the first contact between bare skin and cool porcelain tiles. America shushes him soothingly, offering a brief explanation. “Bathroom. I’m getting you some painkillers, okay? You're gonna have a killer hangover tomorrow, dumbass.”

He deliberately skips over the packet of Advil in his medicine cabinet. The _wrong-right_ buzz is back, electric under his skin, but his hands are steady as he fills up a glass and crushes a few white pills over it. Sleeping pills, god what was he _doing_. America shoves down the faint pang; it was too late to start growing a conscience now. He glances over to where England’s slumped in the corner, muscles lax and loose despite his evident arousal. His head is resting against the wall, but America coaxes him away from it by cradling his jaw with a palm and tugging, gentle. He resists when America brings the glass to his lips, stirs and tries to pull away with a low whine, but America doesn't let him. It’s slow going, but America can be patient and he would have poured the damned thing down England’s throat if he had to. That thankfully doesn't become necessary; England finally opens his mouth and swallows the cloudy water with nothing more than a few token protests. America makes him drink all of it to be safe, standing between his knees with a firm grip on the glass and another hand supporting the back of England’s head. 

England’s still hard, but America has no idea if that’ll last once the sleeping pills hit his system so he supposes that he should just let the poor man climax now. It’d be a shame otherwise, after all that America had put him through. He pauses for a second to consider the logistics - _blowjob might work, but he didn't really want to kneel for England. A handjob felt too… meh, and he’d already fucked England earlier with both his fingers and cock. That left -_

America gives silent thanks to his penchant of stashing a dildo and lube in the bathroom. (A guy had needs, okay? And clean up was way easier in the shower.)

He retrieves the toy quickly, nudging England’s legs apart. It’s a modest size and once slicked up, goes in easily after everything America had done earlier; one quick shove and he's got the entire thing buried inside England, who jerks and gives a choked cry. His responses were getting a little sluggish though, so America doesn't waste any time. He’s almost efficient about it, no teasing at all as he angles the toy to stimulate England’s prostate, knows he's found it by the man’s moan, the way he arches, rocking his hips into the penetration. Feeling helpful, America even curls a hand around his leaking cock, drawing another strangled sound as he rubs at the glistening slit.

England’s unfairly beautiful even under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom and he comes with a harsh moan, spine curving as he spills messily into America’s hand. And. Ah. America remembers dimly, _oh fucking damnit, I forgot about the camera_ as he watches England shudder through orgasm, his mouth dry and his own cock _definitely_ interested in proceedings. 

It seems to take ages for England to finish. It must have been a while; they hadn't had a meeting in months and last he heard, England and France were in a not-currently-fucking phase. England goes limp the second it’s over, still wracked by the occasional trembling aftershock. America leaves the toy where it is. He steps away to rinse the come off his hand in the sink and then realises that well, he's not quite sure what to do now. Yeah, he’d drugged England (and god, the sick thrill that comes with the thought is _exquisite_ ) but now what? More sex? He could, if he wanted to, and he did want it; his cock was fucking throbbing from that display. 

That seemed… anti-climatic though. 

America considers it. Looks at England, then the silicon cock still shoved up his ass. More sex toys maybe? But there wasn't much point if the man was comatose, the fun would mostly be in seeing his reactions. 

America’s not sure what made him think of Japan and the costumes that he sent over occasionally with the manga America liked to buy from him. _For being such a faithful customer,_ Japan had said when America asked, dark eyes unreadable. The clothes were always a size or two too small for America himself to wear… but would probably be a perfect fit for England actually. ( _Japan, what the fuck._ )

Huh. 

England seemed pretty much down for the count. His breathing has slowed and he's drooping, his head nodding forward now and then. There was honestly no better time to get him into skimpy costumes and then photograph him in them. 

_Well. Guess that’s what we’re doing then._

America is almost tempted to get started right away, he resists the impulse. He wrangles England into the shower first, scrubs the sweat and other unsavoury fluids off the both of them. There's still a bit of come trickling down England’s creamy thighs when that’s done though, so he carries the man over to the bedroom, then gets a wet washcloth and wipes him off.

Didn't want to ruin those fancy clothes after all.

England barely stirs through it all, not even when America lays him down on his stomach in the middle of the bed and rubs the cloth gently over his asshole to clean him up, dipping inside a little just to be thorough. Maybe a bit _too_ thorough, but England's just so... so _vulnerable_ like this that America can't resist. It was just so weirdly hot, the way England looked, naked and splayed out limply in America's bed. America supposes that his subconscious was a bit of a massive pervert. Maybe it was just because it was England though; America had been fantasizing about the man practically even before he knew what the word fantasising _meant_. And well, awful as it might sound, England - beautiful, vicious, coldly controlled England - being made weak and vulnerable and defenceless had been a running theme throughout. So. Just England then. It made America feel a little better, at least. 

He’s gotten the clothes out from the box he’d stashed them in at the back of his closet. There was a lot more than he’d originally thought; classic maid dress plus a few variations of it (ranging from cute to obscene), schoolgirl outfit (with a skirt so skimpy that America isn't sure how _anyone_ \- man or women or whatever - could wear it out in good conscience), a sexy nun costume or two, some dresses, and lingerie. Lots of it. America vaguely remembers seeing them in some of the mangas. But they'd been ah. Mostly worn as armour, actually. If he’s remembering correctly. 

… England would look damned good in them though. Maybe those designers had been onto something. 

America doesn't have much trouble getting England into them, despite the uncooperative floppiness of his limbs. (Superstrength came in handy sometimes.) And god, he’s never really thought that this would be a kink of his, but his cock is swelling with each outfit, every click of his camera as he arranges England just so on the bed. 

His control is sorely tested halfway through the impromptu fashion show, after he gets England into these gorgeous panties and slides a pair of stockings and garters onto his long, long legs. The soft pastels look so good with his colouring and the fabric is soft and silky under America’s hands. England is still and unmoving on the bed, eyes closed and face slack. America has to take one breath and then another, slow and measured as he takes his pictures, fighting the urge to just _bury_ his face between England’s legs, find out how pale silk compared to soft skin on his tongue. There were even _ribbons_ laced over the front; christ, America wants so badly to untie them that he’s barely breathing at this point. The camera is set aside on the bedside table the second he’s done with it, leaving America free to run a reverent hand over England’s hip, shifting to settle between his spread legs. “Gorgeous,” he breathes into the patch of warm skin left bare on England’s upper thigh, not even caring how thick his voice has gotten. He nuzzles it, chin brushing the scratchy lace lining the stockings, and moves higher, kissing and nipping lightly at the soft skin. England shifts beneath him, restless, but doesn't wake. America watches his sleeping face, slowly making his way to the panties themselves and just _barely_ holding himself back, only nosing gently at the bulge in the fabric despite his watering mouth. England isn't erect, but that’s all right, America doesn't care when he looks so good trussed up in silk and lace. 

“Gonna fuck you again,” he murmurs, muffled since he’s pressed his face into England’s groin, breathing him in. “God, baby, you just - oh, _fuck_ , I can't even-” He fits a hand between England’s thighs, moulds it to the curve of his ass; gentle pressure on his cleft through those _fucking panties_ , searching with eager fingers for - England makes a soft, sleepy sound, his hips twitching as America wedges the tip of a finger into his hole through his panties. He tries to turn over, finds himself held down by America’s grip on his lower body and just whines instead, clearly still sound asleep. 

Fully conscious or not, he still jerks a little, gasping when America opens his mouth and licks a wet stripe up the front of the panties. _Oh shit, yeah._ America sucks on his cock through the silk, relishes every clumsy jerk of England’s hips, the soft senseless sounds he makes whenever America probes at him through the panties, rubbing at his rim now and then. 

England lets out a noise that might have been a mangled moan when America finally hooks a finger into the panties and drags the back of it aside so he can work his fingers into him and fuck him properly. He’s still wet and loose from earlier, so America doesn't bother with the lube, for now, just strokes him inside and out in slow gentle motions. England’s getting a little hard from the stimulation, but he probably won't be able to come like this. Pity. America’ll just have to enjoy his orgasm enough for both of them. 

He dawdles a little, almost addicted to the noises England makes like this, from being drugged and fondled. But his own cock is aching and he really can't wait any longer, so America sits up again and fishes the lube out of the bedside drawer one-handed. He doesn't even take off the panties once he has his cock lubed up, just clambers back between England’s thighs and pushes the fabric to the side just enough for him to press his cock to England’s entrance. He watches England’s sleeping face as he pushes in, almost mesmerised by the faint flickers of discomfort, the way his nose scrunches up slightly, mouth falling open as his breathing picks up a little. 

It’s the _wrongness_ of it all that gets America even higher, the intoxicating thrill that feels like it’s enveloping him because he might have been able to pretend that England had wanted it earlier; he’d kissed America back at first, after all, had been able to at least respond vocally to whatever America did even if he’d been too drunk and dazed to do much more. But this. This was- America had _drugged_ him. Knocked him right out with fucking _sleeping pills._ He’s unconscious, barely stirring even as America fucks him, hard enough to make the bed creak beneath them. And that was what made it so fucking _hot_. 

America kisses him and England doesn't respond - _can't_ respond, not even when America bites his bottom lip and then smoothes his tongue over the hurt. Or when he sits up and grips England’s nipples, pinching and twisting roughly enough that it had to be painful. The most that England does is whine low in the back of his throat, his face creasing and thick brows drawing down over tightly closed eyes. He's helpless. At America’s goddamned mercy. 

And _that_ , right there, is the thought that pushes him over the edge. 

America finishes with a loud moan, pitches forward to muffle it against England’s mouth. He’s latched onto England’s slim wrists at some point, for leverage as he fucked him. He has them pressed into the mattress on either side of England’s head as he spills inside the man for the second time tonight. He collapses immediately, doesn't even bother to roll off England’s slighter frame when the man lets out a quiet winded noise. Wasn't like he could complain. It takes America a while to recover, so he just stays like that, buries his face into the crook of England’s neck and tries to remember how to breathe, taking stock of the situation. 

England hadn't come. Which was good. Meant that the panties weren't ruined. America might be making use of them in the next few months. He doesn't really know if he has underwear-sniffing as a kink, but then again he hadn't even thought about half the things he’d done this evening and look how it’d turned out. ( _Amazingly_ , that’s what. The absence of guilt was slightly surprising but welcome.)

More importantly, though, England couldn't know about this and he never would if America had his way.

That wouldn't be too hard at least. Half the job was already done for him. England won't _want_ to believe it. He was proud, too fucking proud to believe America of all people could have brought him so low. He was already drunk, and then America had drugged him. He wouldn't remember any of this. _He wouldn't remember,_ America repeats to himself silently, ignoring an odd twinge at the thought. Yeah. England won't remember and so all America had to do was put away all the clothes he’d dressed England up in and then make sure no one ever found the photos he’d taken. He’d even clean England up because England always hated when America came inside him. This one wasn't really a big deal though since England would just think they’d had sex like normal and it could just be excused with a sheepish _must've forgotten the condom,_ which was reasonable considering they'd both been drunk. 

All right. Everything was settled. America had satisfied some weird depraved urge he’d never entertained before tonight and he wouldn't do it again because he wasn't an idiot and everyone knew the best way to get caught was to commit the same crime again. 

Yep. 

He wouldn't do it again.

Everything would go back to normal.

  
  


(America ignores the faint stirrings of disappointment at the thought.)

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: very explicit use of date rape drugs, semi-public sex, blowjobs, mentions of rimming & watersports

It doesn't go back to normal.

Well, it does, on the surface. England has made no comment on anything he may or may not remember from… that night. (He had woken up with a massive hangover and yelled at America from under a pile of covers in the spare room until a glass of water and Advil had been brought to him.) They'd had more furious sex before and after meetings in the months since then, emphasis on _furious._ (Evidently, not even sex could stop them from an argument, from hissing and snarling threats in between moans and grunts.)

All normal there. 

But. 

America can't stop thinking about it. It might have become something of an obsession, in fact, but he thinks that he’s managed to hide it pretty well. Maybe he snaps a little easier now, responds a little more harshly to every provocation England comes up with, pushes arguments to physical brawls with more eagerness than before. It’s just. He can't stop _thinking_ about it. About every helpless little noise England had made with the fight drained out of him, the enticing slackness of his body even as America fucked him. All compared to the quicksilver sharpness of green eyes in the dark, soft lips pulled back in the feral smiles that America can't fucking _stand._ So maybe he’s rougher now when they tumble into broom closets and deserted bathrooms and hotel rooms, his frustration with everything that England just _isn't_ boiling over into violence; pinning him down hard enough to leave bruises, yanking his head back by the hair when he tries to bite. 

England had been limping a little after their last bout. He hadn't mentioned it to America, not even to complain, (too proud to admit it, probably. Maybe he even liked it, the fucking masochist) and his aristocratic features had been immediately arranged into a mask of perfect scorn whenever anyone tried to ask about it.

That was normal too.

But it just pisses America off so fucking _much_ now and he doesn't even know why. 

  
  
  


(He does know. He’d had a taste of what England _could_ be and now he would never be satisfied with anything else.)

  
  


* * *

It’s ridiculously easy to get his hands on drugs. 

Amateur level stuff, really. The sort that any old regular civilian could probably obtain. 

He takes to carrying them around with him. 

  
  


* * *

The first time he uses them is stereotypical, really. Almost cliché. 

They're at some bar ( _pub,_ insists the little voice in his head that sounds a certain stuffy Brit. _We’re in my country and we call them pubs here, you ignorant little shit.)_ and five minutes in, America can already tell that England’s gonna be _wasted_ by the end of it. He's knocking back shots like they're nothing; America doesn't even have to do anything, just sit pretty and nurse his own drink, but that familiar prickle of _sensation_ is back under his skin and no one’s paying attention to their darkened corner of the ~~pub~~ bar anyway. 

It feels like an out-of-body experience, as if America’s watching someone else go up to the counter and smile politely and thank the bartender, a bit like he’s standing on the other side of a plane of thick glass, looking in through a window as someone else checks for observers before dropping a small, white pill discreetly into England’s next drink. It’s a stranger’s familiar fingers that stirs it with the straw and then slides it across the table to his companion, who doesn't even look twice before downing it.

It doesn't take more than twenty minutes, during which England orders four more drinks - all of them rum, he must’ve been in a nostalgic mood - and finishes three of them. He’s hovering blearily over the fourth, swaying visibly even with his head propped on his palm and elbow to the table when the first traces of nausea cross his face. Ah. That was a bit of a pity, but then again, the drugs did that to some people. 

“Doing all right there, old man?” America asks mildly. He plays with a few stray wrappers on their table, watching England closely. Nervous anticipation is making his leg bounce, but America takes care not to jostle the table. 

England doesn't seem to hear though, so he knocks their ankles together lightly until the man _(roofied, America had fucking_ roofied _him)_ looks up with an expression of vague annoyance. His eyes were unfocused. America suppresses a shiver and retracts his legs, squeezes them together under the table and makes sure that there’s only bored indifference showing in his expression, in his voice when he prompts, “Hellooo? Earth to England, old man. Not gonna puke, are ya?”

England aims a wobbly two-fingered salute in his general direction and then lowers his forehead to the table with a low groan. 

Yeah, he looked pretty out of it. America breathes through the flare of arousal and stands, crossing over to poke lightly at England’s back. “C’mon, stupid, time to call it a night. If you get up now, I might even carry you back home.”

Another groan and then England tries to mash his face further into their slightly sticky table like if he’s hoping that if he ignores America long enough, he’ll be left alone. _Yeah, no._ America jabs his sides this time, snickering at England’s put-upon whine because that’s what the others would expect and he can feel Australia looking over. Almost everyone has cleared out at this point; it’s just the stragglers left and even they're packing up now, rising noisily and staggering for the door. America waves back to some of them and then turns back to his own charge, tapping a foot on the floor. “England. Iggy. Iggs. Some of us actually wanna get some sleep tonight. If you don't get up now, I’m gonna make you.”

“F’k orf,” England slurs back, muffled into the table. He hunches a little, curling his arms protectively around his head.

“I warned ya.”

America isn't too gentle about picking him up. Or about slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes so he’s dangling upside down and swearing. Very unhappily. He was making even more noise by himself than the others had as a group and America smiles apologetically at some of the staff and other patrons, all southern charm and _what can ya do, eh?_ He angles them so it isn't obvious that his hands are way higher than they need to be on England’s legs as he starts to weave through chairs and tables for the door. But he can't walk too smoothly through this, all starts and stops, and there's a tiny _oh god_ from behind him as his cargo squirms slightly.

“’merica,” England says abruptly, a thread of urgency in his hoarse voice. “I-I’m gonna -- bathroom. _Now.”_

America thinks about England’s earlier nausea and obeys without question.

* * *

  
  


England doesn't actually vomit, for which America is quietly grateful. 

He just dry-heaves over the toilet bowl with an arm braced against the wall, pale-faced and shaking as America holds him up with an arm around the waist since he hadn't been able to stand properly. _(Loss of muscle control. Expected.)_ America makes soothing noises and pats his back, inwardly pleased by the warm weight slumped against his chest. He had shut the cubicle door and the room was empty, the silence only broken by England’s periodic retching and the creaking of the fan on the wall as the rusted blades spun. 

“Feeling better?” America asks finally, nice and concerned, once England’s gone quiet and is just hanging off the arm around his middle, head drooping. 

“Mhm.”

He’s loose-limbed and floppy when America carefully tugs him upright, just moans pathetically and lets his head loll against America’s chest. It’s a display of weakness that England would normally never show and America swallows heavily before setting a palm to one clammy cheek. “England?”

Another small, helpless noise. His eyes were closed. America presses his fingers to the side of England’s throat, to his pulse point, and counts the beats. _Definitely slower._ He didn't seem fully conscious and America feels fresh arousal wash through him, his cock stirring as he remembers - _some victims experience blackouts or memory loss._ It didn't matter if England was still awake. He probably won't remember this either. 

America runs a hand down England’s chest, playing with the untucked hem of his dress shirt for a moment before pushing it up so he can splay his palm over the warm skin just above England’s trousers. “What to do with you this time…” he murmurs, eyes straying to the shiny pink swell of England’s bottom lip. Nothing too complicated since they were technically in public and anyone could walk right in and see the two pairs of legs under the cubicle door, so actual penetrative sex was out, but… _Ah._ “I think I have just the thing, sweetheart.”

England would look so _pretty_ with come on his face. America might even risk a photo with his phone. He could always just transfer it to a secure hard drive after getting home like he’d done with the other photos.

* * *

He’s even nice enough to carry England home and tuck him in bed afterwards. (After washing the come off his face, of course.)

* * *

  
  


He does it again and again. Not _every_ time England goes out drinking with him, of course, that was just plain stupid. Not even most times, even though the urge certainly is there, a darkly purring thing in his chest that keeps making him think of dazed green eyes and a warm body loose and relaxed against his own, the near-silent sounds of pleasure that he could wring out if he tried hard enough.

He tries to keep it to once - tops - every few months.

But it’s so _easy._

No one ever bats an eye even when America has to physically carry England out of pubs or hotel bars. France makes the occasional kissy noises and might even shout out a few lewd comments if he’s drunk enough, Canada just sighs at their former caretakers’ antics and most of the rest don't even look up from their own drinks. Half the time, he didn't even need the drugs, with England having already drunk himself into a stupor. 

God, England was practically gift-wrapping himself here. If anything, America was being _restrained_ , okay?

That’s what he tells himself with England lying sprawled on his front in his own bed, probably drooling on the dark green comforter. He’s totally out; America had checked earlier with the pet name test and a bit of ah, friendly groping. He runs a considering eye over the tempting swell of England’s ass as he perches on the bed and decides _oh, why not_. He’d always wanted to try rimming and it wasn't like England could mock him if he didn't get it right the first time. 

* * *

  
  


He starts trying less… mainstream things after a while. 

Watersports had been a guilty fantasy, accidentally stumbled upon a while ago when he’d been browsing porn sites and then the England thing had happened and at some point, a part of his depraved subconscious had gone _hm, why not combine the two_ and now he had England naked and unconscious in a hotel bathtub after a whole day spent running interference whenever he had tried to use the bathroom. (Don't ask. It had involved bribing a few janitors and a lot of those OUT OF ORDER signs.)

Then America himself had taunted England into a drinking contest on the way to the pub and hadn't taken no for an answer when England had tried to swerve discreetly to the bathrooms after getting there. The poor man’s bladder had to be bursting by now. (Towards the end of the meeting, he had even cut back on _tea.)_

To further increase his chances of success, America had even filled a small bowl with warm water from the tap and carefully stuck one of England’s hands into it. Still, he wasn't going to be too surprised if this didn't work; it wasn't an exact science. 

(Just in case though, he’d fixed his camera to the towel rack, right above England’s feet with a perfect view of his entire body. Would be a shame if it actually worked and he didn't get it on camera.)

* * *

He’s not sure how many photos he has by now. _A lot_ is his best estimate. All of them are practically pornographic. His collection is highly compromising and America is only adding to it with every drunken night out.

England doesn't seem to have figured it out yet, why he sometimes blacks out and wakes up in the morning sore as hell, but America’s ready for when he does.

He thinks he knows what he wants from England now. 

  
  



	4. Epilogue

“... and _you_ , you goddamned fucking-”

America clicks his tongue against his teeth. It’s such a small sound, but England hears and his mouth snaps shut immediately. Visibly braced to retaliate with an even more furious volley of insults, France looks momentarily thrown before following England’s - _wary,_ but you can hardly tell, really - gaze to America’s unimpressed face. 

“Ah, _Amerique_!” His smile is conspiratorial, his eyes flicking back and forth between them with open delight. America knows full well what France is thinking, what he’s assuming, and does nothing to dissuade it. He even smiles back, big and bright and friendly, slinging an arm over England’s slim shoulders carelessly enough to disguise his tiny flinch. America tries not to preen at that, but not very hard; France would probably just take it as pride in his conquest anyway. 

England’s normally much better at controlling his reactions. Stiff upper lip and all that. America’s tested it extensively - sending him into meetings with plugs and dildos stuffed in his ass, cock cages around the house on his days off, nipple clamps when it’s cold out enough to warrant thick sweaters that can hide them and so on. The works, really. America’s very imaginative when he wants to be and he’s found that photographing England in dirty costumes and compromising positions is even _better_ when the man is fully conscious and painfully aware of what he's doing. (Blackmail has been a _very_ useful tool and it’s a bit of a vicious cycle; _wear this and pose like that and give me even more dirt on you so I won't share what I_ do _have on you so far.)_

Actual physical pain doesn't faze him much though, which is a pity. America’s roughed him up a little before; even whipped his whole back bloody once and England hadn't made a sound through it all. 

Figging had had _quite_ the effect though. America still fondly remembers the way England’s body had jerked and twitched, spasming in those cuffs as America bent him over with the peeled ginger still up his ass and then spanked him to honest-to-god _tears_. Again and again, for hours and hours and _hours_ , because America had felt like being mean and well, he had a nice thick ginger root right there, didn't he? Just had to peel it again when the effects wore off and it was good as new! It was the first time England had ever broken and _begged_ him to stop and god, hadn't that been a power trip?

He still drugs England sometimes, just for the hell of it. England’s adorable when he’s high out of his mind; narcotics make him a little loopy but in a _good_ way. They make him all happy and smiley and fuzzy around the edges and he’ll keep trying to curl up in America’s lap and nuzzle his cheek like a particularly affectionate cat and it’ll be as if England didn't absolutely hate his guts. (Hmm, cats. England would be so cute with little cat ears and a tail…)

Right now, England is straight-backed and stiff against America’s side. He's probably in pain. America had been gentle and he’d been prepping England’s body for months beforehand, but an entire fist was probably a bit too much for someone of England’s size to take without some tearing. (Especially one of America’s fists. He did have pretty big hands.)

France doesn't seem to notice. No one ever does. 

America lets his hand wander scandalously low on England’s hip, curling around so his fingers are brushing the front of those smart, perfectly pressed slacks. England doesn't stop him. France keeps talking, but he’s staring at the movement of America’s hand without appearing to be staring and one of his eyebrows go up at the lack of an explosive response from their English counterpart before he shakes his head a little and visibly dismisses it with a chuckle. 

He doesn't ask. 

No one does. 

  
  


America presses his cheek into England’s hair and smiles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnnd that’s all for this fucked up fic! Thanks for reading :D

**Author's Note:**

> this horrible, no-good, very bad idea popped up and proceeded to beat me around the head until I sat and wrote it so I did... (⑉ ॢ• • ॢ⑉) I've got this thing more-or-less done but we shall be returning to our irregularly scheduled but fully consensual porn in the next fic.
> 
> dw I have written some nice, fluffy (well, as fluffy as I'm likely to ever get, anyway) smut as penance and it’ll be up in a week!


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